Seventy years ago to this day, the Soviet Army liberated the death camps Auschwitz I and II. Almost ten years ago, the anniversary was designated International Holocaust Remembrance Day. Although I’ve been reflecting on representations of the Holocaust in art, literature, and philosophy for many years, I remain irritatingly little affected by today’s date, January 27. In most European countries, official events will once again collectively recall that breach of civilization and commemorate those who were systematically murdered. So too will Germany. Here, the decision to officially commemorate the victims of the Holocaust on this day was reached in 1996—not least becausethe fall of the Berlin Wall on November 9, 1989, threatened to overshadow the other watershed events in twentieth-century German history that took place on the same date: the November Revolution of 1918, the Hitler putsch of 1923 and, notably, the “Kristallnacht” of 1938. By contrast, the date of January 27 had never played a prominent role in the post-war remembrance culture of West Germany. Which is perhaps why this anniversary still doesn’t really touch my heart.

A photo from the so-called “Auschwitz Album” that was used as evidence in the Auschwitz Trial, inter alia. An SS officer, (presumably either Ernst Hofmann or Bernhard Walter) took this photo of Hungarian Jews’ arrival at Auschwitz-Birkenau in late May or early June 1944. Those pictured here awaiting so-called “selection” on the ramps have not yet been identified. CC-BY-SA 3.0 Bundesarchiv (German Federal Archives).

Auschwitz became synonymous for the systematic murder of European Jews even before the Cold War had ended. This was due not so much to the photos taken by Soviet soldiers of the prisoners in the camps after liberation as to those taken by the SS of deportees on the ramps at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Literary accounts of the latter, such as Primo Levi’s Survival in Auschwitz (written in 1945–47 and published in 1958) or Jean Améry’s autobiographical collection of essays At the Mind’s Limit (1966), and the first Auschwitz trial in Frankfurt (1963–65) cemented the pivotal role played by Auschwitz in collective consciousness. Unlike abstract terms such as “Holocaust,” “Shoah,” and “genocide,” the word Auschwitz, as Adorno noted, represented a concrete place and the inconceivable extermination of human beings and the erasure of their names. It is only logical that the day when Auschwitz ceased to be a death camp was seized as an opportunity to commemorate the nameless that were murdered here.

But the importance of Auschwitz in today’s memory of the Holocaust does not account for the UN General Assembly’s designation of January 27 as International Holocaust Remembrance Day alone, for the day also marks the implementation of a resolution taken in the year 2000 by Stockholm’s “International Forum on the Holocaust.” The Remembrance Day illustrates the so-called “universalization of the Holocaust,” echoed in Jan Eckel and Claudia Moisel rightful claim that “no other historical event has come anywhere near attaining such broad international significance.” On January 27, collective memory in Germany becomes part of this global act of commemoration. The homeland of the perpetrators and their descendants now remembers its systematic mass murder on the same day as countries such as the Czech Republic and Greece do—countries that were once under German occupation.

Footage of the Ayalon highway in Tel Aviv, taken while the sirens wail for Yom HaShoah, Video: Hanok Dakar
In Israel, by contrast, another day is of major importance. There, they commemorate the extermination of European Jews on the 27th day of the Jewish calendar month Nissan by bringing public life to a standstill for two minutes. Before this haunting form of collective commemoration on Yom HaShoa was introduced, practicing Jews, particularly those in the US, used to commemorate the Holocaust on the ninth day of the month of Av, which is Tisha b’Av, the day of fasting that recalls the Destruction of the Temple. Rabbi Manuel Saltzman once described the connection between these two events with the words,

“Jews [all over] the world gather in synagogues on the holiday of Tisha b’Av [Ninth of Av] to commemorate the great calamities which befell our people in our past history and culminat[ed] in the tragic extermination of six million Jews in our day. We [will] never forget these martyrs and [pray] that all mankind will remember them.“ (Cited in: Hasia R. Diner, We Remember with Reverence and Love)

Only those who allow themselves to be moved by an event can commemorate it; only those who are really touched will remember. The act demands a framework that may indeed be collective in character, but doesn’t necessarily have to be. The collective that commemorates the Holocaust and its victims on January 27 is less universal than its international framework suggests—the day that reminds me of Auschwitz is different.

Alexis Hyman Wolff in her exhibition Zur Zeit at the Museum der Dinge, Berlin, June 2013. Photo courtesy of the artist.

One of the works in our art vending machine is a candle shaped like a root, made by the artist and curator Alexis Hyman Wolff. In this interview, she offers insight into the development of the work:

Christiane Bauer: Why did you make a candle for the art vending machine?
Alexis Hyman Wolff: Thinking about the small size of the objects and the temporary home they would find in the vending machine, I wanted to reflect on the idea of the souvenir, a central theme in museums. Candles are used for memorial in many cultures. In Jewish tradition, a yortsayt candle is lit to remember a loved one on the anniversary of their death.

What is special about the material you used?
The candles are made out of beeswax from a beekeeping supplier in Berlin. I understand that beeswax is one of the few materials that burn without producing black smoke, which could explain the belief that burning beeswax candles is good for the air. According to a European folk custom, when someone dies, a member of the family must go to the hive and “tell the bees,” and also invite them to the funeral. This tradition suggests a link between bees and the spirit world.

How important is the aspect of “remembrance” in your work?
I understand remembrance to be directly linked to loss and how we cope with it. In a world marked by transience and mortality, work in museums attempts to give knowledge, objects and stories a longer life, or a second life, in the service of generations to come. Remembrance, and finding ways to honor and understand the past, is at the core of this work.

How does the candle you created for the art vending machine take part in discussions on “remembrance” and “memorabilia”?
The candle is a small and modest object, which has enormous symbolic power: creating light in the darkness and harnessing fire. In the past, in medieval churches for example, candles were used to measure time. I like the idea that the candle opens up a period of time that is dedicated to remembering. The wax is transformed and eventually consumed as it carries out its work, and in the end all that remains is memory. Plato wrote about memory being like a wax tablet upon which our experiences are impressed, if only for a brief time. All of these aspects make the candle a complex object.
Furthermore, the candles in the art vending machine are shaped like roots, so that they might be able to help us to reflect on our origins, our ancestors, and the things that are “under the ground” or remain unseen. How do we remember what we cannot see? This question fascinates me.

You found the roots that shaped the candles in the vicinity of Los Angeles. How did you choose them, and how did you cast them as candles?

Finding the roots was a great adventure and very surprising. I thought that the roots in the forest would look just like taper candles, perhaps a bit curvier, but they were wildly different: some looked like knots, others more like branches or lightning bolts. After I had chosen six different roots that had the right size, a dear friend and expert mold-maker at the Museum of Jurassic Technology in Los Angeles showed me how to mount the roots and wrap them in silicone-dipped gauze strips. We then sliced the molds to extract the original roots. For each candle, the molds had to be tied up with string and nestled in sand before the melted wax could be poured in. Then the candles had to be extracted at just the right temperature for them to keep their shape, without getting brittle. My kitchen in Berlin was a candle production headquarters for several weeks. That was a nice winter activity!

What should our visitors do with the root candle?
I leave it up to the individual to decide whether they will burn the root candle or not, and hope that either way it might be a good reminder to those who take it home.